


Five Days Of Spring

by Khaleesi_ish



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:31:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3878809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaleesi_ish/pseuds/Khaleesi_ish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five different looks at Maggie's birthday over the years and how they both spend it, whether that be together or apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Days Of Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly AU because I've written them to know each other for 20 years rather than 15, and disclaimers are at the end. This is written for the love of my life, adamwhatareyouevendoing <3 Other than that, I hope you enjoy!

March 22nd 1995

“It’s your birthday tomorrow, isn’t it?” Jocelyn asks suddenly, not daring to look across at Maggie and instead settling to look out to sea. She watches the sun sink towards the water, the myriad of colours fastening themselves to the waves, flowing into the gentle ebb of the tide until the ocean becomes a fantastic rendition of the sky.

“Yes, it is”. Maggie sounds a little taken aback and Jocelyn bites her lip, shifts her knees closer to her chest as she leans her weight back against her hands. Anxiously she fists the grass beneath her, feels the blades filter through her fingers. “How did you know?”

“You mentioned a while back,” Jocelyn admits, suddenly feeling ridiculous for bringing it up – for letting Maggie know that she remembers every word they’ve ever shared. She’s quite sure that somewhere in her mind she has a catalogue of passing comments that Maggie has made over the year that they’ve known each other, all of it piecing together the complex and fascinating background of Maggie’s life. “Something about hating having a spring birthday”.

Maggie snorts a laugh and knocks her knee against Jocelyn’s own. “Ah I see, so you remember me complaining, is that it?”

“No, no. Of course not. Just,” she pauses as she considers her next words, unwilling to divulge how much she remembers nor how much she’s thought about all the little details of Maggie’s life that she has managed to figure out. “Just when your birthday is”.

“Well then I hate to be that person,” Maggie says guiltily as she shifts to lean back on her hands, her thumb accidentally brushing against Jocelyn’s hand as she moves, “but I haven’t a clue when yours is”.

Jocelyn forces herself not to withdraw although she can feel the heat of Maggie’s hand next to her own, the closeness plucking at her already frayed nerves. Instead she focuses upon replying, entirely sure that she has never mentioned when her birthday is, never one to make a big deal of it. She prefers it that way.

“June 30th”.

“Of course,” Maggie says with a laugh that sets Jocelyn’s heart racing, “of course you have the perfect birthday”.

“Perfect?” Jocelyn frowns as she glances across at her, and then immediately wishes she hadn’t. The last of the sunlight draws out the golden hues of her hair and highlights the sharpness of her jawline, the fine curvature of her neck as she tips it back to stare up at the sky. Her mouth goes dry.

“You have a summer birthday,” Maggie explains as if it is glaringly obvious as to why that’s an enviable thing, “right in the middle of the year. Six months till Christmas then six months till your birthday. I envy you!”

“Well I’ll take your word for it, though it’s a funny thing to envy”.

“Yes, well I’m a funny person if you’d failed to notice”.

Jocelyn laughs at that, feels the contentment that the moment provides run through her with a comforting warmth. It’s refreshing to be like this with someone, to feel human and whole in a world where she is so often treated as less than that; where her job demands her to be emotionless and her life is only manageable in compartments.

She turns to face Maggie as her laughter dies down only to find that she is already looking at her. Though there is no smile on her lips, Jocelyn can read the happiness in her eyes and not for the first time the temptation to lean in and close the gap between them becomes almost unbearable. It would be so easy to reach out for her, to cup her face and draw her down into a kiss that she has imagined more times than she can count. But she can’t find the courage to do so, her fingers curling into the grass instead.

“Do you have any plans for the big day tomorrow?” She’s not sure if she imagines the disappointment that flickers momentarily in Maggie’s eyes, but even if she did the look is gone as quickly as it had appeared.

“Haven’t got anybody to make plans with”.

“Spend it with me?” Jocelyn immediately winces at the quickness of her delivery. “I mean, if you want to? We could make a day of it, take the boat out and bring some lunch or -”.

The smile that Maggie throws her holds the beauty and the intensity of the setting sun. “I’d like that”.

March 23rd 1995

As Jocelyn packs away the remainders of their lunch, Maggie takes her glass of wine and stands at the stern, looking out into the calm waters.

“There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar,” Maggie cites aloud, though her voice is soft as if she is talking to herself. Jocelyn smiles softly as she feels the warmth of her adoration for Maggie burn stronger. Silently she approaches her, aches to reach out a hand to trail against her lower back, but instead clasps the small present in her hands tighter.

“I love not Man the less, but nature more,” Jocelyn finishes before Maggie can, standing behind her whilst toying with the present, her finger looping through the expertly tied bow.

Maggie turns round to face her and smiles widely, though her surprise is clear. “I didn’t have you pegged as a poetry lover. Especially not of Byron’s”.

“Well, what can I say? I’m a woman of many depths,” Jocelyn says jovially as she turns and sits on one of the cushioned benches that line either side of her boat. “I used to adore poetry, back before I started studying law. I was going to study English at university but then,” she pauses as she remembers the terse argument she’d had with her mother. They’d argued for days, her mother adamant that she follow in her father’s footsteps – that she should make something of her life. “But then things change, I suppose”. She shakes her head as if to clear away the memories of a life she could have had. “Anyhow, this,” she offers up the present in her hands as Maggie sits next to her, “is for you”.

“You shouldn’t have,” Maggie says with a smile, even as she takes it and eagerly runs her fingers along its edge. She has that look about her that belies her excitement, a childish sort of glee at being given a present that Jocelyn cannot help but grin at. Maggie wraps the ribbon of the bow around her fingers as she unties it, runs her nail along the slight opening that creases the back of the present.

“You haven’t seen what it is yet”.

She thinks she should turn away, should be less interested in watching Maggie’s face as she opens her gift but she can’t help herself. She has never been one to deny herself the simple beauties of life, and Maggie is the most beautiful thing she’s ever come across. So instead she watches Maggie’s curious expression, notes the way her tongue peeks out of the corner of her mouth as her long fingers slide into the opening in the present and shuck the rest of the wrapping paper.

She bites her lip as Maggie drops the paper between them and instead clutches the small black box between her hands. For a moment Maggie studies the box, leaving Jocelyn to wonder what she’s thinking, tries to work it out even as Maggie unclasps the box and opens it.

The silence stretches on for longer than she is comfortable with as Maggie seems to simply just stare at the contents of the box. Jocelyn shifts anxiously in her seat as the sudden urge to apologise works its way up inside of her.

“Jocelyn,” Maggie whispers, her voice catching on each syllable as her eyes turn back to her, wide and blue and beautiful.

“You said that yours had broken,” Jocelyn says in explanation, trying to keep her voice indifferent which is hard to do when Maggie is looking at her like that; like she’s the first light of sunrise after days of darkness. “I hope that it’s ok”.

“It’s,” Maggie takes the watch out of the box, gently runs her thumb down the gold plating of the strap as she examines its face, “it’s beautiful”.

Jocelyn has to bite back her immediate and ridiculous reply, that whilst it may be pretty Maggie is the most beautiful thing she has ever laid eyes upon. Instead she offers a rueful smile. “I’m glad you like it”.

Maggie balances the box on her lap as she goes to fasten the watch around her wrist, but the clasp is tight from its lack of use and her hands seem to shake. After her third attempt of trying to put it on, Jocelyn lays a hand on her forearm.

“Let me,” she offers softly.

Maggie immediately holds out her arm, letting Jocelyn slide her hand down it until she clasps her wrist. Her fingers are soft against even softer skin as she turns Maggie’s arm over to clasp the watch together. She fixes it slowly, lets her thumb linger guiltily against the delicate skin of her wrist, the pad of her thumb sweeping almost imperceptibly against the tangle of her veins. She thinks she hears a quiet murmur, a small sigh escape Maggie’s lips in answer to her touch but she doesn’t dare look up, insists to herself that she has imagined it – that is was instead the whisper of the waves.

“There,” she says quietly, her lips quirking up into a smile as she looks at the watch that hangs perfectly against Maggie’s wrist. “Perfect fit”.

“Thank you”. Maggie draws her hand back only to rest it against Jocelyn’s knee, squeezing gently. “Really though, Jocelyn, thank you. It’s – it’s perfect”.

She withdraws her hand but Jocelyn is sure she can still feel its burn, can feel the imprint of her fingertips against her skin. It takes her a beat longer than usual to reply. “Happy birthday, Maggie”.

///

March 16th 2000

Whilst she waits for the kettle to boil, Jocelyn crosses off another day on her calendar. Unintentionally her eyes gravitate downwards until she finds herself tapping the end of her pen against the bright red circle that envelops March 23rd. She unpins the piece of paper that is tacked just above the date and silently reads over the note that is scrawled down in her own handwriting.

_Broadchurch Florists_

The florists’ number, which she’d covertly acquired from her mother, is printed beneath it and underlined several times; a reminder to herself. The kettle clicks off and she immediately sets about making herself a cup of tea, keeping the note in one hand as she recalls the bouquet she has extensively planned in her head. As she pours milk into the mug, she mentally pictures hydrangeas next to roses and imagines the odd lily thrown into the mix. She nods to herself as she absently stirs her tea, still satisfied with the arrangement in her mind as she heads for the phone.

…

She lists off her order to the florist over the phone. The woman is very accommodating, hums appreciatively as Jocelyn tells her what she wants and murmurs in agreement with her strict instructions.

“Right,” the woman says eventually, as she reads Jocelyn back her order. “Hydrangeas, lilies, peonies and roses. Understated and not too pink. Understood. And what would you like to say on the card?”

For a moment Jocelyn ponders the question, debating whether or not to send one at all. Part of her wants to just so that Maggie knows that she’s thinking about her, that she hasn’t forgotten her although she no longer calls or writes. But equally she is reluctant to, afraid that Maggie will think her ridiculous, will assume the flowers are a haphazard attempt at an apology rather than the gift they’re intended to be.

“With all my love on your birthday,” she decides eventually, her fingers drumming anxiously against the kitchen counter as if in counterpoint to her calm voice. She isn’t surprised that her body reacts the way it does, strung taut and nervous, having become used to the involuntary tenseness she feels whenever Maggie is mentioned. It’s as though her body knows what her mind will not dare consider.

She can hear the scribble of the florists’ pen as she writes the message down. “And a name?”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” Jocelyn assures her immediately, comfortable with remaining anonymous. “Just those words”.

“Right, of course. So that will be,” the woman pauses as she works out the cost of it, and Jocelyn prepares her cheque book. She twirls the pen between her fingers, already anxious as she wonders if Maggie will like them, even if she won’t know that they’re from her. “Fifty five pounds”.

“The cheque will be with you in the next few days,” Jocelyn says as she scrawls her signature along the bottom. “Thank you for your help”.

March 23rd 2000

“Maggie Radcliffe?” She can barely see the woman who is speaking from behind the bouquet when she answers the door, her face entirely blocked from view by an arrangement of the most beautiful flowers she’s seen for a long time.

“That’s me”. A little taken aback, Maggie takes the bouquet from the woman when she holds them out towards her with a flourish.

“And you’re sure these are for me?” Maggie asks, even as she inhales the heady scent of the flowers, her fingers skimming over the silken softness of the lily petals. The bouquet is surprisingly heavy and she doesn’t even want to think how much they would’ve cost. Instead she lets herself enjoy the aesthetic of them, the perfect balance of colour and fragrance that immediately put a smile on her face.

“Absolutely,” the florist nods and smiles, “a very specific order if ever I’ve heard one. No name though, I’m afraid”.

Maggie sighs softly as she presses her nose back into the flowers. “Well, thank you”.

As she walks back through her house in search of a vase, she’s already made her mind up that she knows who these are from. She’s sure she has no secret admirer, certainly not one with such exquisite taste and a knowledge of her favourite flowers and so that only leaves one option. Something inside her aches at the thought of it, at the lengths gone to in order to remain anonymous – to appear as though she doesn’t care.

Gently she settles the bouquet into a vase before plucking the card from its depths, reads it over and over as if somehow that’ll soothe her. But it seems only to make the ache in her chest spread further as she considers the scant few words of the card.

“With all my love,” she eventually says aloud as her thumb worries the corner of the card. “Oh Jocelyn”.

She can’t help the tears that gather as she lets herself think of a life that could’ve been. Though she knows what ifs will do her no good, she can’t stop herself from imagining a life with Jocelyn, a life where she had had the courage and the conviction to follow her heart. A life where she could’ve spent her birthday with the woman she loved.

She shoulders her thoughts aside and instead picks the vase up and carries them over to the window that overlooks her back garden. The few flowers that grow out there are small and unimpressive compared to the bouquet, and she can’t help but roll her eyes at the grandeur of Jocelyn’s gesture. She smiles to herself even as she rubs at the face of her watch that is still clasped to her wrist, burnished and scratched with time but still just as beautiful.

///

March 20th 2010

“Jocelyn!”

Instinctively she turns to the sound of her name, raises a hand to shield her eyes from the sunlight that is particularly bright that morning as she seeks out whoever had called out.

She finds her straight away, her golden hair unmistakable, almost luminescent in this light. She swallows around the lump in her throat as she watches Maggie approach, flanked by Lilith who seems comparable to Maggie’s shadow; a darkness that forever follows after her. Though they don’t hold hands, don’t touch in anyway in fact, they are still unmistakably together. Envy bursts sharply in her chest, cuts like a knife edge and leaves an unmistakable burn that she seems to have nursed for more years than she cares to think.

She bites down on the inside of her cheek as she waits for them, steels herself for the confrontation. She suddenly feels cornered as she watches them, ambushed. A wave of panic rolls through her, forcing her to ball her hands into aching fists which she hides behind her back.

“Maggie,” she says with a genuine warmth that she is helpless to prevent, as the pair finally stop in front of her. “Lilith,” she nods.

She refuses to call her Lil, and though when asked she insists it’s simply because of her aversion to nicknames, she in fact doesn’t want to give Lilith the satisfaction of thinking that she has accepted her. Because she hasn’t and she’s certain that she never will, instead preferring to think of her like the bible does: an unclean animal, a she devil. She knows it’s utterly unfair, and that it’s her own fault that she isn’t in Lilith’s place but she cannot help her jealousy. It’s as much a part of her as her love for Maggie is.

“What are you doing this weekend?” Maggie asks abruptly, never one to beat around the bush. Jocelyn can feel herself already formulating an excuse in her head, an inherent reaction as she seeks an escape. “It’s just that we’re thinking of doing something for my fiftieth. Not exactly a party but a get together. I – we – would like you to come”.

Jocelyn looks at Lilith for a moment and thoroughly disagrees with the idea that she wants her anywhere near Maggie. She is well aware of Lilith’s disapproval of her, just as she’s sure of Lilith’s awareness of her own dislike toward her. But the woman nods along with Maggie, an act that is betrayed by her eyes – a cold sort of grey that tells her everything she needs to know; that she’s not welcome.

“I – I have a case on at the moment and a lot of work to do,” she trails off apologetically, can hear the pathetic tone of her own voice and can only hope that Maggie cannot sense the lie.

She watches Maggie deflate, face creasing with the lines of her disappointment. Lilith looks oddly triumphant and for a moment Jocelyn is tempted to change her mind, to go just for the hell of it if only to piss her off. But she knows she can’t. She’s not sure if her heart can take it.

“Oh. Well that’s a shame. I’d have loved for you to come”. She can hear the genuine disappointment in Maggie’s voice and immediately she wants to take it back, because she cannot bear the idea of having hurt her. But then she supposes she has hurt her far worse than this over the years for this to barely even scratch the surface.

“I’m sorry,” she apologises, as she rearranges her hands that are still clasped behind her back.

“The invitations still there if you have a spare moment,” Maggie tries with a small if disheartened smile.

“Though we know how important your work is to you,” Lilith says quickly and Jocelyn bites back the retort that immediately springs up inside of her. _Piss off._

“I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time without me,” she says and hopes that her voice doesn’t betray her sadness, before glancing down at her watch. “I’m sorry to be so rude, but I’ve really got to go. I’m meeting with my client at two”.

“Of course,” Maggie says with a nod, goes to lean towards her only to think better of it and resettle at Lilith’s side. “Just think about it alright?”

Jocelyn nods but they both know she won’t - her mind has already been made. “Happy birthday for Saturday, Maggie”.

March 23rd 2010

She keeps the curtains drawn all day.

Jocelyn tips her head back against the armchair as she stares at the ceiling, listening to the rising crescendo of the music that plays through the speakers. She closes her eyes as it peaks, Holst’s _Mars_ vibrating around her and somehow the harmony, both beautiful and tragic, bolsters the loneliness that resonates through her. She grits her teeth and blindly reaches for the tumbler besides her, drains the remainder of the whiskey inside it without thought.

When she opens her eyes and leans forward to refill her glass, she finds herself already crying. She swallows as she shakily pours herself another measure, absently wipes the back of hand against her cheeks and collapses back into her chair.

She wonders how much more she needs to drink before the image of Maggie’s smile blurs in her mind. She looks across to the half full bottle in front of her, and smirks bitterly at it. She supposes she will find out.

“And many happy returns,” she murmurs into the empty room as she raises her glass in the echo of a toast.

///

March 23rd 2016

The morning is startlingly bright if a little cold. With her glasses on and just a slight squint to her eyes, she can make out the numbers before her without too much of a problem, allowing her to attempt the Sudoku. Maggie has long since stopped her from doing the crossword, arguing that Jocelyn knew very little about pop culture or the latest celebrities and that simply guessing at letters wasn’t actually going to get her anywhere.

She rolls the pen in between her fingers as she contemplates her next move, jots down a seven in the top left corner and then a five beneath it. She shuffles the paper in her hand, smoothes it out against the railing as the wind catches at it.

As she considers the top row, arms wrap suddenly round her waist and she almost drops the newspaper over the edge of the railings. With a huffed laugh she tips her head to the side slightly and feels Maggie drop a kiss to her shoulder before nuzzling closer.

“That’s wrong,” Maggie says in greeting as she rests her chin on Jocelyn’s shoulder, pointing a finger at the top right square, “and you have two three’s in the bottom row. You’re bloody useless at this as well as the crossword”.

“My apologies,” Jocelyn says sarcastically, turning in the tight circle of Maggie’s arms, still clutching at the newspaper and pen as she loops her arms round Maggie’s neck. “If it weren’t your birthday I’d be forced to reprimand you for your uncalled rudeness”.

“Well,” Maggie leans down and steals a soft kiss, “depends how you’ll punish me. I might enjoy it”.

“Hmm,” Jocelyn throws the newspaper onto the small table beside them, fingers the hairs at the back of Maggie’s neck, “well the day is still young”.

“Unlike me,” Maggie says with a well-practised lightness, an ever present mirth that plays in her eyes. But Jocelyn is aware of the slight crease to her brow and the downturn of her lips as she speaks that belies the seriousness beneath her words. She watches Maggie’s mood shift imperceptibly, having become so very accustomed to reading Maggie’s face, to taking in every shift and crease that it’s easy for her to see the slight vulnerability that works its way through her.

“Well you said it first, not me,” Jocelyn teases but even as she speaks she runs her fingertips from the nape of Maggie’s neck and round to her collarbone, gently slipping up to trace the tendon up her throat. She spreads her fingers along the sharp line of her jaw before smoothing her palm against Maggie’s cheek, letting her thumb crest over her cheekbone. “But you’re still breath taking”.

Maggie gives a huff of a laugh as she rolls her eyes, though Jocelyn isn’t quite sure if its disbelief or appreciation. She pushes herself up slightly, lets her eyes roam across Maggie’s face for a brief moment before she kisses her. She kisses her slowly with the hope that it will tell Maggie all the things she wishes to hear, will soothe her doubts where simple words alone will not.

Maggie’s hands pull her closer in response, her fingers clutching at the curve of waist. Her thumbs push downwards, smooth across the arch of her hips in gentle circles and Jocelyn smiles softly into their kiss. She can read Maggie’s touch better than any written word and finds herself reassured that Maggie understands what she’s trying to convey. Somehow they’ve always been better versed in each other’s bodies opposed to their spoken words.

She deepens the kiss with ease, slips her hands up into Maggie’s hair to splay and clutch; listens to the catch of Maggie’s breath and the slight moan as her teeth graze her bottom lip. She pulls away as she feels her back graze the railing behind her, looks up at Maggie’s eyes which are bright with her desire. She smirks as she pushes back the strands of hair that have fallen in front of Maggie’s face, tucks them behind her ear.

“I love you,” she says with conviction that comes from deep within her, and hears Maggie’s breath hitch, “no matter how old you get, and how many birthday’s we celebrate together, I will always love you”.

She’s taken aback when Maggie’s eyes suddenly well with tears, some of them spilling down her cheeks even as she tries to blink them back. Jocelyn cups her face in her hands, wipes her tears away with an apologetic smile, her thumbs lingering against her cheeks. She wonders if her words would’ve had the same effect had she said them years earlier when she was supposed to – when she had desperately wanted to – rather than waiting all this time. Surely Maggie would’ve heard the words a hundred different times, rather than clasping hold of the quiet confessions like bright and dying stars. Not for the first time Jocelyn feels her guilt burn in her chest to realise the happiness that she had denied them both.

“You’re not supposed to make me cry,” Maggie half laughs as she covers Jocelyn’s hands with her own, “it’s my birthday”.

“Let me make it up to you then?” Jocelyn asks with a deliberate quirk of her eyebrows, taking Maggie’s hands in hers and settling them against her chest. Maggie throws her a look that threatens to melt her, and by the smirk that she wears she knows exactly what she’s doing – not that that is a surprise. Maggie has always exuded an easy sort of confidence, aware of herself in such a way that has always had Jocelyn tripping over herself to keep up.

“Mrs Robinson,” Maggie grins mischievously as she tugs Jocelyn back towards the French doors, “you’re trying to seduce me, aren’t you?” Just before they slip into the house, Maggie stops them in a patch of sunlight. The light catches in her hair, a brilliant brazen gold that dapples down to play across her skin. Not for the first time, Jocelyn is taken aback by her beauty.

“I love you too, you know,” Maggie says with a seriousness that has Jocelyn swaying into her, her heart beat fluttering in response as she looks up at her. Her eyes are electric, a bewitching blue that steals what is left of her breath.

Jocelyn manages to rein herself in just enough to speak. “You’re going sentimental on me,” she jokes as she squeezes Maggie’s hands before leading them inside. She lets go of Maggie only to slide the door closed before she pushes her back against the wall, cages her in against it with hands either side of Maggie’s head. “Now don’t go crying on me again”.

Maggie bites down on her bottom lip in such a way that Jocelyn feels her breath stagger out of her.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she whispers as her hands settles once again against Jocelyn’s hips, “I expect I’ll be far too distracted to even think - “

Her words fade away into the catch of her breath as Jocelyn leans into her, hips pressing forward and chests touching as Jocelyn nips at her throat. Her tongue flickers against her skin before tracing upwards, stopping only to press hot kisses against her skin before reaching her ear. Her breath teases against the lobe and Maggie groans, eyes fluttering.

“Hmm well,” Jocelyn hums throatily and feels Maggie’s body twitch, fingers tracing the waistband of her trousers before slipping under her top, “I can assure you that you will be”.

…

Jocelyn wonders how long she can keep Maggie like this. She’s settled between her legs, laid flat against the mattress with Maggie’s legs spread either side of her. She smooth’s her palms up Maggie’s thighs slowly, thumbs skimming softly against the insides of her thighs, trailing to rest at the creases below her hipbones. She tongues the skin below her belly button, presses kisses in a slow straight line until she stops just above the first soft hairs between her legs. She tucks her chin gently against Maggie’s pelvis as she peers up at her, thumbs still tracing circles against her inner thighs, slowly working their way upwards.

“Are you deliberately being a tease or are you just getting slow in your old age?” Maggie says, her voice lowered a few octaves, a gravelly needy sound.

Jocelyn turns her head so her cheek is pressed against Maggie’s stomach, exhales a laugh and watches as her breath draws goosebumps. She feels Maggie’s hips shift beneath her.

“Perhaps I just want to take my time with you,” Jocelyn says gently as she smooth’s her fingers back down Maggie’s thighs. She shifts until her cheek is rested against Maggie’s thigh, rakes her fingers down the backs of them. Maggie draws in a shaky, sharp breath as her own fingers slide over Jocelyn’s shoulder, nails digging in just so against her shoulder blade. Jocelyn wets her lips before she moves suddenly, spreading Maggie’s legs further, teases her tongue in the crease of Maggie’s thigh.

She doesn’t need to look up to know Maggie has tipped her head back, can hear the gentle movement of the pillowcase, the slight quickening of her breath. She repeats the movement, but this time her fingers slip through her heat – smirks as she feels her arousal against her fingertips. She spreads her fingers along the shape of her, presses her thumb light and quick against her clit before she draws her hand back entirely. She’s sure Maggie lets out a quiet little whimper as her hips roll but she could be wrong – her own pulse is strong and loud in her ears.

Her mouth keeps working, kissing along her thigh, up to her hip and back again, fingers massaging against her quivering thigh muscles. When Maggie’s hips twitch upwards, her hands weaving into her hair, she smirks and presses a last quick kiss to her thigh before levering herself up on both arms, crawling over Maggie until she straddles her waist. She lowers her hips, rocks briefly against Maggie’s stomach, feels her arousal slide against her skin.

Maggie’s breath hitches then as her hands settle at her hips, fingers tight and clutching.

“Jocelyn,” she breathes.

“Hmm,” Jocelyn hums nonchalantly as she draws herself downward, presses light kisses to Maggie’s chest, tongue dragging along a pebbled nipple. She catches it gently between her teeth, rolls her tongue against it. The fingers at her hips grip tighter as Maggie moans.

“Jocelyn,” she whines again, her hands smoothing up Jocelyn’s back to tangle in her hair, to guide her – to keep her there. But Jocelyn shifts again, catches both of Maggie’s hands in her own and pins them down either side of her head.

“I don’t think so,” Jocelyn chuckles, moving Maggie’s arms until they’re above her head, changes her grip so she can clasp both delicate wrists in one hand. The other hand trails downwards, plays across her ribs before cupping a breast. She squeezes gently, thumb rolling over her nipple as she lowers her head to her other breast. She keeps up a steady rhythm, thumb moving in time with her tongue, and soon all she can hear is Maggie’s panting breath, the occasional whimper – a plea.

As she feels Maggie’s hands shift under hers, both impatient and desperate, Jocelyn sits up and tilts her head to the side, stills her hands.

“You’re beautiful,” she breathes, as she leans down to press a kiss to her lips, before she lies down next to her. She props herself up on an elbow as her other hand slips down Maggie’s body, before sliding through her pooling arousal. She groans herself at the feel of her, wet and more than desperate for more.

Maggie almost chokes on her moan as her hips cant up and into Jocelyn’s hand, her fingers curling into the sheets below her as her head tips back. Jocelyn bites her bottom lip as she watches her, takes in the flutter of her eyelids and the smooth line of her jaw as her fingers slip easily inside of her.

Within moments, Maggie is keening against her, breath hitching as Jocelyn slides her thumb up to press at her clit. She leans down and presses soft kisses against any patch of skin she can find, her fingers falling into an easy rhythm that has Maggie gasping –

“Fuck,” Maggie moans, the syllable drawn out as her fingers pluck at the sheets, hips straining upwards, and Jocelyn can feel her body trembling as her muscles spasm. She’s sure she’ll never tire of watching Maggie come, of feeling the intensity of her own desire burn through her as watches the flush spread along Maggie’s chest, her body relaxing even as her chest heaves.

“Happy Birthday to you,” Jocelyn teases, ducking back as Maggie swats half-heartedly at her, too breathless to do anything more.

///

March 23rd 2026

“I can see why you think spring birthdays are a nuisance,” Jocelyn murmurs, voice light as she runs a thumb along the sleek stems of the flowers in her hands. “It’s very cold. But I suppose that could just be my age”. She smiles as she looks down at the bouquet in her hands, studies the soft curvature of the rose’s petals that are pressed against the brightness of the hydrangeas, the vibrant colours almost luminescent in the midst of the grey morning.

Shifting against the sudden brisk wind that rustles the flower petals and tugs at her coattails, she uses one hand to draw her coat closer around her shoulders. Slowly, as her knees ache and her back stiffens, she crouches down. She exhales and watches her breath cloud in the frigid air before her.

“But the flowers are blooming, especially the hydrangeas in the garden. If you ask me they’ve sprung too early, but then perhaps they know it’s your birthday and that you have a penchant for them”. She laughs softly as she clutches at the bouquet in her hands, closing her eyes briefly as she pictures the swaying flowers in their back garden, almost lost amongst the tall grass but still visible; blooming in patches of brightness. “Of course even mother nature wants to please you. Though you won’t catch me saying that again, what with your ego. Don’t need it getting any bigger, do we?”

Gently she lays the bouquet in her hands down before running her fingers down the cold shining granite in front of her. Her palms are all too familiar to its smooth touch, having visited almost daily over the past few months, always taking the time to run her hands along its curving sides. Her fingertips trace along its front, ghosting over the words that are engraved there; spiralling along the gold lettering, the single word permanently imprinted upon her.

_Always._

Her thumb brushes back and forth over that word, catching at the curling tail of the ‘y’. She closes her eyes and immediately pictures them both atop the cliff all those years ago, her tentative confession and Maggie’s slow acceptance, their kiss that had changed every aspect of her life. She dwells on that moment a lot, the echo of hope and courage that she’d once felt and the overwhelming surge of love and adoration for the woman who had always held her heart.

Resolutely she bites back her tears as her hand slides up to stroke over Maggie’s name, the headstone almost painfully cold to the touch as she lays her palm flat against it. Sometimes she wishes she could feel closer to Maggie with this simple touch alone, would somehow feel her presence in the flat expanse of the granite. But she finds it too cold to ever believe that, a far cry from the warmth that Maggie had exuded, from the light that she had given all her life. Instead she finds solace in the blossoming flowers that line their garden, the same plants that Maggie had once tended, where she can imagine the ghost of her touch and the warmth of her presence. Sometimes she can feel Maggie in the softness of the summer air and in the pages of every book that she owns; the threads of her memory woven into every word.

“I miss you,” she murmurs quietly, her voice breaking as her tears fall down her cheeks. She doesn’t bother to brush them away although they feel heavy and cold against her skin, instead lays both hands upon the gravestone. Her fingers clutch at its polished sides to the point of pain. “I miss you so much, Maggie. Every day. Every hour”.

Slowly, her body seizing and joints cracking, she straightens up. Stiffly she presses her hands into her pockets, curling them into fists as she tries to breathe through the ache in her chest. Her grief grips hold of her afresh and it takes everything she has left, every ounce of her resolve and her strength, to stop herself from sobbing - from breaking apart atop Maggie’s grave.

Her breath catches around a sob as she speaks, her words solidifying before her as they tangle in the clouds of her breath.

“Happy Birthday, my love”.

**Author's Note:**

> The text of 'There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods' by Lord Byron is in no way mine, and no infringement was intended in the quotation of it.


End file.
